'Splody went BOOM!

Gah! This new ratings system at BlogExplosion. It's so involved. It's now an 11-step process. That seems like too much of a commitment. As J would say, "I need space!" All of these questions. I feel like I'm taking the SATs again. But this time I'm not in Kennedy High School so I don't have to worry about imminent death.

I'm not liking this word rating thing. You could put anything there. I could rate someone "lemon" or "itchy". What does that mean?

And the grammar police were particularly harsh with me. A "1" because I put "their" instead of "her" in the previous post? A bit rough, don't you think? Granted, I'm not all grammar queen, but I think I deserve a bit higher than a "1". At least you get the gist of what I'm saying, right? I'm not all "U r so not r0xx0rs!1!!"

I'm not happy. Not so much about the grammar thing. Just the whole...thing. I fear change! This is strange and new and probably evil. Must crush.

Hmm.. Maybe I did deserve that "1".

Happy (Non) Birthday

When I was little, I loved birthdays. Not just my own. Just birthdays in general. How wonderful to celebrate the birth of a person you hold dearly! There should be lots of cake and presents and fun. My mother didn't share my excitement. I guess it's because she grew up smack dab in the middle of seven kids. (That may also be why I'm an only child.) They didn't do birthdays. There wasn't money enough for such frivolities. But, oh, how I loved birthdays!

Every year when it was my mother's birthday, I'd go around the neighborhood, in a flurry of excitment, announcing the special day to one and all. My mom told me how total strangers wished her a happy birthday. To my child's mind, that would only serve to make the day more special because everyone-- even complete strangers-- are celebrating your special day. Mom didn't quite see things my way, but she didn't have the heart to discourage me from it. The things a mother will put up with for their child.

Fast forward twenty some odd years.. Here I am. Again. Announcing to everyone that today is my mother's birthday. A birthday that she claims does not exist and will never again exist. She's freaking about the big landmark one next year. Shh.. Don't tell anyone. So happy non birthday, mom. I love you!

And the big dinner plans tonight? Totally not my idea! Really!

By the way...

Am I the only one who thinks of Xanadu when I think of Blogazoo? It's just me then? I keep having flashbacks of neon lights and roller skating. I'm frightened.

Update

Almost right after I posted, they came home. Some second degree burns on her hands. She has cream that she has to apply twice a day and some lovely Percocet kill the pain. She's now on the couch, happily woozy with her mummy hands.

She's being stubborn about going to work tomorrow. She doesn't want to take off because she thinks that everyone will think that she's not showing up because of her birthday-- or rather, The Day That Is Not to Be Named. Oh, yes, it is that day tomorrow. She got a lovely present, didn't she? At least she'll be too Perc'ed up to notice it. Drugs should be a legal requirement for any birthday past 28.

A Bad Morning

Let me tell you, waking up to your mother screaming isn't the way to a cheery morning. It all started yesterday when we were at the supermarket. The Boy wanted churros. Churros are wonderfully delightful fried sticks of dough covered with sugar, and sometimes cinnamon. He wanted to buy some from the freezer section and his mother-- that would be me-- being a food snob said there was no way that she was buying churros from the freezer section. It had to be fresh.

Me and my big fat mouth. Will I never learn? So my mother decided that she wanted to make the churros for my son. The last time I'd had any was when I was a child and my friend's Cuban abuela (grandmother) made them for us. I didn't remember the recipe since it had been at least 20 years since I'd had them. I looked up the recipe online.

Fast forward to this morning and the waking up to screaming. I, of course, jump out of bed and run to the kitchen. The dough had exploded, shooting up a wall of oil. Luckily, it only got her hands. Mostly her left and only a little on the right. Luckily, she slammed down a lid on the pot and turned off the fire. Stubbornly, she insisted she didn't need to go to the hospital. I did what little first aid I knew, double checked that through google, and warned her that if she didn't look better within a half hour that I would drag her, kicking and screaming, to the hospital.

I saw some blistering. Her pinky didn't look too hot. She knew she couldn't out-stubborn me and relented. I had my father take her and told him that if he dropped her off and left-- he can't deal with hospitals, he says-- I'd have his head on a platter. And I'm waiting. Still. I hate waiting.

The Talk

When you're a parent there are certain responsibilities. You're the one who guides your little bundle of joy through their early years. You mostly lead by example. That is why we lie a lot. Who really is that nicely mannered? But in front of your kids, you have to be. There are also times when you have to sit your kids down and have a heart to heart talk.

I pride myself on being a progressive parent. I try to answer my childrens' questions as truthfully as possible. I do have to take their age into account, and will skim over certain parts when need be. There is one talk in particular that I've had to have with my kids over and over. The Stranger talk.

I'm sure you've all been through it. I know I have. And my kids have. Hundreds of times. Honestly, if I hadn't seen their IQs myself, I'd wonder about my kids. And, no, I never dropped them on their heads. They just don't get certain concepts. This "stranger" thing is one of them. All of their young lives I've told them "Don't talk to anyone you don't know!" You'd think that would spell it out right there. You'd be wrong.

During a shopping trip, I see my son chatting up two women. I call him over and ask him what he was doing, he says he was talking to these nice ladies, I said that he was talking to strangers, he says "Oh, no, mom. They're not strangers! I told them my name." Yep. A big d'oh moment. So I had to specify "Do not tell anyone your name. Ever. Unless it's a cop and you're lost or something, but I'd rather you just tell them that you're looking for me and give them my name. You know my name, right? A hint. Not 'mom'." That seemed to work, but my kids are on the trusting side. Particularly the boy. So I give them pop quizzes..

Me: "So this person you don't know comes up to you and says that he's got some cute little puppies and asks if you want to come with him and see them. What do you do?"

The Boy: "I ask him how old the puppies are and if I can pet them." He looks very proud of this answer.

Me: Sigh.

The Girl: "No, dummy! You say that you have to ask mommy if you can go with him to play with the puppies."

Me: "No.."

The Boy: "Oh! I ask where the puppies are!"

Me: "This is a stranger. Do you go with the stranger?"

The Boy: "Only to play with the puppies and when I'm done, I'll call home because I remember the phone number."

Me: Rubbing away impending headache. "You would go with a stranger to his house?"

The Girl: "What kind of puppies are they?"

Me: "The puppies don't matter!"

The Girl: "Well, are they the fluffy kind? They're cute and I like them."

Me: "Ok. You aren't getting this. He's a stranger. Do you talk to strangers?"

The Girl: "No!"

The Boy: "But we can play with the dogs, right?"

Would you believe that they're both at the top of their classes? I know, it's amazing. As I told my mother, I'm quite sure that their teen years will either drive me irreversibly insane or cause me to have a stroke. Very likely during a shopping trip. While they talk to a stranger. About puppies.

Weekend Woes

So yesterday, Friday night, the kids were supposed to have their dance class. I spend the afternoon rushing the kids. Making them eat an early dinner, getting them dressed in uniform, getting them to class on time only to have no one show up. No one. Ok, well, there were a few other bewildered parents waiting out in their cars.

I took initiative. I got out and went to the building. I open the door. Yes, the door was open. Open door, no one home. I even took a tour of the building. I could've just made off with a crapload of stuff had I wanted to. I wait. The kids start whining and wandering. I ponder the usefulness of those kiddie leashes. Yeah, I know they're 7 and 8, but it's only going to get worse. I remember how appalled I used to be by those harness/leash get ups, but now I think they were onto something.

Ten minutes pass. No one's coming. I make a few calls. No one knows what's going on. No one is showing up. We go. I need to go to the supermarket and pick up baking supplies. Everyone who was supposed to come over last weekend is coming over this weekend. The stupid snowstorm last weekend messed everything up. And I ate all the cookies. So now I need to make more.

The second we step foot into the store, the girl starts whining. She wants dance class. Well, buddy, so do I. It's not happening. The boy starts wondering if I've suddenly become senile because this isn't home. I think the boy is senile because I said in the car-- five times-- that we had to make a run to the store for cookie supplies. I begin to resent the dance teachers, my family, and everyone else in the store and wonder why the hell is the pudding in the cereal aisle?! Do these people know how to plan out a store?

We finally get home. It's seven o'clock and I haven't had dinner yet. I still have my migraine-- for the past 3 days. I'm tired, hungry, achey and in a pisser of a mood. And I have to bake cookies. I ponder running back out to the store for Chips Ahoy or something just to fuck with everyones' minds. I figure that it's not worth it and they might actually think that I just made the world's crappiest cookies. Or worse, they might like them. These people live in bakeries and the only time they eat fresh-baked anything is when I'm the one baking. And so I'm get to stay up until 2 in the morning, again, baking cookies.

At least I got to sleep in this morning. Not that I don't have to rush through food shopping-- why, oh why, didn't I do that last night?-- today because people are coming over tonight. I would tell them to fuck off, but they're bringing the baby. They're evil people who know how to bribe me. I love my family.

Hell is a Battlefield

I've been singing Pat Benatar all day.

All. Day.

And, of course, if you sing Pat Benatar, you must do the dance. Those of you who recall the '80s will of course know that I'm referring to the infamous Love is a Battlefield dance.

Why has this happened? How did I get sucked into an '80s time warp? It all started with pamie's story and skyrocketed out of control in the comments. Soon, there I was, burned nose-- I snorted hot tea (yes, I snort when I laugh, I'm a big geek) after reading a particularly funny comment-- shimmying, and shouting "We are young!"

It wasn't my best moment.

Bandwagon?

I'm on it!

I'm sure y'all-- yes, I'm from Jersey and I say "y'all" (I lived in the south for a time)-- have heard about Blogazoo by now. I couldn't resist.

Hi, I'm Erratic Prophet and I am a blog addict.

Pain

As if getting over a migraine wasn't bad enough, today I find in my mail a letter from the State Board-- the entire title is a mouthful: State of New Jersey, Department of Law and Public Safety, Division of Consumer Affairs, New Jersey State Board of Cosmetology and Hairstyling.

My application was rejected because my stupid, evil high school didn't put the official school seal on my transcripts. So now I have to go back to the high school-- believe me, I do not look forward to this, I had to deal with the moron squad last time I called-- get them to put the stupid seal on my transcripts, go back to my beauty school, have them do what they need to do, hope and pray I don't need to go back to the doctor to have him sign anything, and maybe-- just maybe-- I can send this off again. And maybe-- how I've come to loathe the word-- they won't wait a month to tell me that something is wrong with the application. And maybe I'll get to take the bloody test.

Ahem.

No, I'm fine. Really. I'll bash a few heads and things will go smoothly. I might not have to scream much. No worries.

But none of the above has anything to do with the pain I'm in now. No, that pain comes from somewhere else. I blame braiding for my pain. In my rage, I fiercely French braided my hair. Yeah, well, I didn't know what else to do. I parted my hair in half and angrily wove it into two braids. I look like a pissed off Pippi Longstocking, but with darker hair and matching clothes. And no monkey. I'd really like a monkey. But I digress..

You wouldn't think that braiding would hurt so much, but-- oh, yes-- it does. My arms.. They hate me. My hands aren't exactly fond of me either.

At first, the pain was intense. Muscles knotted up and screamed in protest. Eventually, they loosened up and it was only a throbbing pain. I was shaky, weak, whimpering. Yes, I'm a wuss. A seriously out of practice wuss. I really need to get back into lifting weights. In the meantime, Advil is my friend.

I blame you for this, State Board! Send me a monkey and I may forgive you.

A Short Note

Just a quick note to anyone who wants to quit smoking. Even if you're not ready to quit just now, maybe it's kinda niggling at the back of your mind, and you're just curious about the how of it. Or if you have a friend or loved one who wants to quit. I highly recommend QuitNet. It's a wonderful program and there are many supportive people to be found there. Good luck.

Smokin'

Well, not literally. Not anymore. Today is a very special day.

Happy Anniversary, J!

No, not that kind of anniversary. We're not a couple. We quit smoking a whole 9 months ago today. I'm pretty proud of us for this achievement. I know I couldn't have gotten through it without a buddy suffering along with me.

And now to get all kinds of icky mushy. Thanks, man. You've been a great friend. I appreciate that and I appreciate you.

Ahem.



You do realize all of this mushiness is due to PMS, right? Just so we're clear.

Trollville

My dear annoymous,

You promise me you won't come back and here you are. I'm sure I'm not the first woman you've disappointed-- nor the last either-- but we really have to stop meeting this way. I know you surfed in here at first, but then you came directly to my blog. I think someone likes me.

Is this like when you were in the first grade-- I know you never mentally left there, but work with me here-- and you'd pull a girl's hair because you thought she was cute? If it is, I have to say that I'm very sorry. It would never work. There are some very glaring differences in our personalities. Such as: I think you're an asshole and you think you're human. See how they just don't jibe?

Why don't you try silently suffering? I grow weary of your verbal diarrhea. It's ugly, messy, and stinks up the place.

No love for you (bet that's not the first time you've heard that either),
R

The Play's the Thing

Because of the last post, I was forced to remember a rather humilating, embarrassing, and funny experience from when I was in my class' 3rd grade play. We were doing something about historic figures from New Jersey or some shit like that. I don't remember. I just remember that I wanted to be Molly Pitcher and I wasn't. I also remember that my best friend was the Jersey Devil.

Who was I? Fuck if I remember. Some little old lady. I remember that much because I had to sit on a rocking chair and pretend to knit. That rocking chair was to be my downfall.

It was a tiny chair. I wasn't a large child, but I knew there was no way I could sit comfortably in that chair. It was tiny. Meant for a toddler or a toy, not an 8 year old. The teacher told me to sit in it anyway. It was only for a few minutes and then I could get up and go take my seat in front of the stage. If only things had gone that smoothly..

I sat in that chair. I rocked. I knitted. My knees were obscuring my furious knitting, but I was an actress and the show, she must go on. I followed my cues. I was good, dammit. Too good for this shoddy production! Then I went to get up, pick up my chair, and take it down the stairs with me. It should've gone that way. Instead, it went something like this: I tried to get up, but the chair stuck to my ass. My ass, people. Not only that. I couldn't get the damned thing off. I tried to suavely wrestle the blasted thing off and move towards the stairs. I'll let you in on a secret. You cannot suavely wrestle anything off your body! So, while wrestling, I nearly fell down the stairs. I turned my fall into a stumble and make my way down. Once my feet touch the floor, the chair pops off my bottom and I nearly tumble over. I caught myself on a classmate. I set the rocking chair firmly down and rush over to my seat, head down and thoroughly embarrassed. Everyone is laughing at me. Who is laughing the loudest?

My mom.

Yep. There she is, in the front row. Her face red from laughter. She nearly fell off her seat laughing at me. Her daughter.

And they wonder how I turned out like this.

Birthday Toast

Today is my uncle's birthday. The very same uncle who "taught" me to swim. Oddly enough, he is my favorite of my mother's siblings. He, my mother, and I have the same quirky, goofy, and sometimes morbid, sense of humor.

He moved in with us for a time after he graduated college. He was in his mid-twenties and had had no previous experience with children. I was a grownup stuffed into the body of 3 year old. Children aren't easy to deal with at the best of times, but I was a strange little child. He never knew what to do with me. I was serious, solemn, neat freak of a child. He taught me to loosen up and I broke him in.

I remember when I lost my first tooth. I was playing Hide and Seek with my cousin and his friends. I tripped on a speck of dirt and fell, knocking my chin on the sidewalk. This made my already loose tooth pop out of my mouth and land a few inches from my face. Normally, falling like this would've sent me off into a crying jag, but I was so excited about my tooth that I scooped it up and ran home to tell my uncle all about it. I was too busy telling my uncle about my tooth to really take in his horrified expression. (Now that I think about it, it was similar to the expression he had when he threw me into the pool.) He kept interrupting my story-- I do love telling a story-- about the game of Hide and Seek and how I fell and so on. I remember the phrases "Blood.. You're bleeding" and "Your mother is going to kill me." but mom never did kill him and I had a good "How I Lost My First Tooth" story.

He went to see me in my class plays. I remember looking out at the crowd and seeing his beaming face. Wait, no.. His laughing face. He was laughing. Pointing and laughing. Then taking pictures. But I was happy to see him anyway.

He was also there the first time I got carsick. My uncle and I would go on the 5 hour car trip to my grandparents' farm each summer. I'd stay for a few weeks up there. He took me to a diner before our trip. I ordered my breakfast, but couldn't eat much. He told me to eat up or he'd take me right back home. I ate up. I ate too much. I warned him that I was going to throw up. He sped across several lanes to pull over onto the shoulder. I remember how he dumped all of my Barbies out of a bag and told me to puke in the bag. I cried because my Barbies were on the floor. Then I threw up in the bag. He left that on the side of the road and told me to hush when I said that he was littering.

I also kept his speeding ticket a secret because my mom would've killed him. Nor did I tell on him about the swearing.

I know those all sound like horrible stories, but they've become fond memories. My uncle taught me many things. The most important thing he taught me was how to laugh at myself. What seems miserable or embarrassing will eventually become a really great story to tell. I've got a lot of stories to tell. Some of them are thanks to him.

Happy Birthday, Uncle A.

Not a Happy Blogger!

Blogger's really being evil with me today. Not letting me republish my blog. Why does it hate me so? Ah, well, try try again..

Because I'm evil...

I changed things around a bit. Added here, subtracted there. Who says I'm not good at math?

I like switching things up for several reasons:

1. I get bored easily.
2. I like organizing things.
3. I change my mind often.
4. I really like messing with J's mind.

The last is really just a bonus.

They should have a fundraising telethon for this...

I suffer from PMS. No, not the one you're thinking of-- though I do get that one, too. This is the lesser known PMS. Period aMnesia Syndrome. I always forget when my period's coming. You suffer from PMS, too, if you find yourself uttering any of these questions/statements:

• How did I get this monster zit?
• Why are my boobs so huge?
• And sore. Ouch.
• Hmm.. My back hurts. Maybe I did too much lifting yesterday.
• How did I gain five pounds? I need to back away from the cookies.
• I need cookies. I don't know why, but I will hurt you if you don't give me cookies. Now.

That's only the tip of the iceberg where PMS is concerned. You will find yourself scarfing a bag of chips while yelling at the kids and blame it all on that stupid, oh so touching commercial you just saw. Sniff, sniff.

When someone suggests your mood swings may be related to the other, more famous, PMS, the fog will clear, the lightbulb will go off, and the bell will sound. Well, shit, that explains it all. Now go wipe those chocolate smears and potato chip crumbs off your face, dear. It's not appealing.

Art with a body count...

Killer Art: Serial Killer Art Review

Take a closer look at the art by this country's mass murderers. Art is reviewed and rated. A fun time had by all. (link via Metafilter)

Snow Blows

So, with the help of a neighbor, we figured out the snowblower. We somehow manage to get it around the cars and start in on the driveway. Well, I should say my father started in on the driveway. He wouldn't let anyone near the snowblower. He was like a little crack monkey with that thing. He only got half of the driveway done before he started heading up the street, a huge grin eating up his face. He was last seen heading north, where pastures are whiter. If anyone sees him, stop him before he hits Canada and send him home, please.

R.I.P.

Johnny Carson, longtime host of ‘Tonight Show,’ dies at 79

You'll be missed, Johnny.

Wasting Time

In between surfing blogs and burning cds onto my hard drive, I found time to make a mini doll me..

Isn't she cute? And she kinda sorta does look like me. And there's my little-- if you consider a 15 lb. cat little-- kitty, Buttons (a.k.a. Boo, Monsieur Booboo, Boo Kitty, and OW! Dammit, Cat!).

As you can see, I'm in desperate need of sleep.

Will I never learn?

I went ahead and opened my big mouth. I said "It had better either snow enough to use the snowblower or just melt because I'm done." And now? A blizzard. They're saying 18 inches.

Sometimes I shouldn't be allowed to talk.

We had to run out in this to do our food shopping. Then we had to dig out car out and race back-- at a whole 5 m.p.h.-- home to hide indoors. Hibernate. Until tomorrow afternoon, when we will surely have to figure out how to work the snowblower and dig ourselves out. Yep, that's right. We don't know how to actually use the snowblower. You'd think it'd be obvious, but not really. And I can't make it work through will alone.

Have I mentioned how much I hate winter?

Tea, Pee, What's the Difference?

I was just sitting here, enjoying my lovely mug of tea when some sloshed onto my shirt. I exclaim, "Oh, great! I spilled tea on myself." Which lead to this conversation..

Me: (string of muttered curses)

Mom: "You what?"

Me: "I got tea on myself."

Mom: "Pee? You peed yourself?"

Me: "Tea! I spilled tea on my shirt!"

Mom: "Oooh.. Tea. Tea on yourself. Heh."

Me: "Yes, mom. I've been potty-trained. You were there, remember?"

Things I have been chased by...

My family has a fine tradition of being chased by various animals and I continue to follow in their footsteps. Here is a list of animals that I have been chased by:

• Geese.
• A monstrously huge turkey in Russia. (One of my aunts was continually chased by turkeys on her parents' farm.)
  
• I was also semi-attacked by an army of fish in Russia.
• I've been menacingly stalked by goats. (An uncle was always butted by sheep on his parents' farm.)
  
• I've had horses, many horses, try to eat my feet.
• I've been dive bombed by my pet parakeet. (She took a chunk out of my cousin's thumb.)
  
• Pooped on by a bird. (But my mom holds the record for most times pooped on.)
• Licked by a giraffe. (Petting zoos are evil.)
• Chased by a dog.
• Harrassed by a squirrel. (Well, the squirrel was mostly taunting my cat.)
• Slapped on the head by my cat while daring to sleep.
• Swarmed by many, many different bugs. (Your children will never get a mosquito bite with me around!)

I'm sure there were more, but those are the only ones I can recall at the moment.

Why I Don't Like Geese

I have a long history of fear and loathing where geese are concerned. For some strange reason, they love to attack me. Even as a baby. My mom had to stop taking me to the park because they'd charge after me, en masse.

Then one time my friend, her family and I went to the park. I don't remember exactly how old I was. Somewhere between 6-8. We were having a grand ol' time trying to learn how to skip rocks on the brook. Then I heard it. That ominous honk. I turned around and there they were, surrounding me. How they snuck up on me so quietly, I'll never know. I was wary, but didn't move until one tried to bite me. Then I threw my rock at the group and took off running. They gave chase, the evil little minions of Satan. I wound up slipping on goose shit and, yes, landing in some of it. I had goose shit all over my nice jeans. My mom was going to be pissed. My friend's parents had to scare the geese away from me and we hurried home. I had to sit on a newspaper.

Fast forward to college. Sophomore year. I had a lovely little single room in the dorms. It had a view of the campus and you could even see the lake if you craned your neck a bit. It was a small room, but I didn't mind that. I had that lovely view after all. Then, again, that fucking honk.. I look out my window and it was like a horror movie. Geese everywhere. All right in front of my fucking window. They honked day and night. They shit everywhere. My lovely view was covered in goose shit. I fucking hate geese.

100 Things

I've seen these lists here and there and thought "Why the hell not?" Usually, that thought gets me into lots of trouble, but I think I'm safe here. Let's kick this off...

1. My birthday is on Columbus Day.
2. No, it's not always on a Monday. (You wouldn't believe how many times I've been asked that.)
3. I hate being asked stupid questions.
4. I'm very sarcastic. It's a family trait.
5. I sometimes hurt feelings with my sarcasm. I feel badly about that.
6. I don't get offended when people tell me that I'm being a bitch.
7. I'm totally a bitch.
8. I'm obsessed with time. (Watches, clocks, hourglasses. And I must always know what time it is.)
9. I'm also obsessed with containers. (If allowed, I would go all obsessive compulsively Martha Stewart on the house and would put everything in containers and label each container.)
10. I'm not allowed to go all obsessive compulsively Martha Stewart on the house, so I tend to over compensate and can be a bit of a slob at times.
11. I have really great eyebrows. (I get lots of compliments on them.)
12. I've been tweezing and/or waxing my brows since I was 13. (I won't allow anyone else to do them.)
13. I love cooking.
14. I'm a really great cook.
15. I hate to clean.
16. But once I start to clean, I find it hard to stop.
17. I have to write on yellow notepads.
18. I love music and play it almost constantly.
19. I have a constant stream of music running through my brain.
20. I've been known to break out into song and dance numbers.
21. I've startled people with my song and dance numbers.
22. I can't sing for shit, but that doesn't stop me.
23. I can dance pretty well.
    
24. I've been told that my lips look too perfect to be real.
25. My lips are real.
26. My favorite thing to drink is tea.
27. I'm very picky about my tea.
28. I'm very picky.
29. I draw some very weird and scary people sometimes.
30. I'm afraid of marriage.
31. I'm also afraid of clowns.
32. I got married once.
    
33. Not to a clown. (But I guess that's a matter of opinion, really.)
    
34. I got divorced after a 3 year separation.
35. I was always more afraid of shadows than complete darkness.
36. Someone once gave me a porcelain clown nightlight which I was forced to use.
    
37. I've been an insomniac for a very long time.
38. I'm a tomboy.
39. I'm also very girly.
40. My IQ is estimated to be around 154.
41. I took the test at around 3 AM, so I'm not entirely sure that it's accurate.
42. I'm a good test taker.
43. I went to a small, private, women's college for about a year and a half.
44. I was asked nicely to leave at the end of that year and a half.
45. I've always had more male friends than female friends.
46. I am, at turns, incredibly arrogant and self-conscious.
47. When I was little, I spoke several languages fluently.
    
48. I have since forgotten most of those languages.
49. I would rather read the book than watch the movie. (In most cases.)
50. I love going to museums. (Though I rarely ever get to go to one.)
51. I love veggies.
52. I haven't eaten red meat in 13 years.
53. I almost went completely veg, but worried about getting lazy and not eating properly and didn't.
54. I prefer home-cooked meals to fast food.
55. I have a serious sweet tooth.
56. I'm addicted to buying shoes.
57. And makeup.
58. And cds.
59. I'm probably the only woman in the world who would be thrilled to receive an appliance for a gift.
60. I heart Kitchenaid.
61. I have a list of crushes a mile long. It's become a running joke.
62. I like funny guys.
63. I love funny guys bearing gifts.
64. I hate getting cut flowers as a gift.
65. Yes, I would rather have a live plant.
66. I'm really picky about my chocolate.
67. Other than those things, I'm really easy to shop for.
68. I'm addicted to Macys.
69. I love to talk about myself.
70. I love to talk about my kids.
71. I love my family. (Even when I don't.)
72. My family pisses me off a lot.
73. I'm the black sheep of the family.
74. I'm also probably the palest person in my family.
75. Or the world.
76. But I have no wrinkles!
77. I once had a pet goat.
78. My grandfather served him for dinner.
79. I really, really, really hate bananas.
80. I've never been stung by a bee.
81. I'm afraid of bees.
82. I have never had a cavity. (With my sweet tooth, this is indeed a miracle.)
83. I have naturally curly hair.
    
84. I don't use shampoo. (No, my hair doesn't stink.)
85. I color my hair because I'm mostly gray.
86. Premature gray runs in my family.
87. My natural color is almost black.
88. I now color it a medium brown.
89. My favorite season is fall.
90. I hate wearing dresses.
91. I don't like to dress up.
92. But if I have to, I will look damn good.
93. I've been known to scream at inanimate objects.
94. I have a bad temper.
95. I tend to be the mediator in my family.
96. I always have to have lip balm near me.
97. I always have to have something to drink near me.
98. I love spoiling people.
99. I love being spoiled.
100. I'm an only child.

Whew.. That was harder than I expected.

Wondering...

Should I really be amused when my 7-year old tells her big brother to flip someone off and walk away instead of getting into a fight? And is it wrong to laugh at my mother when she thinks that the 7-year old doesn't know what flipping someone off really means?

No, I did not teach the girl how to flip someone the bird. She learned it, like all kids do, at school.

Someone's Twisted Joke

Because I put a mini-rant about hating winter and snow? It. Starts. Snowing. Life can be so cruel sometimes.

It had better either snow enough to use the snowblower or just melt because I'm done.

Winter is Evil

The past few winters have been miserable here. Well, miserable for me, anyway. I hate cold. I like snow only in theory. It's pretty to look at an' all, but the shoveling is hell. I really, really hate shoveling. And there has been much shoveling the past few years. We've had a few blizzards. Last year, we got a few feet of snow-- which I had spent all night shoveling so we could all get out of the driveway and to work. I think I got about 2 hours of sleep that night and I could barely move that day.

So this year, we decide to get a nice big snowblower. The kind that looks like a lawn mower. No more hours and hours of shoveling for us, no sirree! We buy the snowblower. We admire the snowblower. It's all big and machine-like and red. Such a pretty candy apple red. Surely, since we've bought this machine, it will not snow this winter. Isn't that how it goes? We're all cheered by this thought. A nice, mild winter is just what we hope for. So, of course, it has to snow. But not enough to use the snowblower. Just enough that you have to shovel it up or it will turn to ice. And it keeps doing just that. Just an inch or so of snow. I won't melt on its own. Get out the shovel and salt.

I hate winter.

Hi!

Just a quick hello to all of you beautiful, beautiful people from BlockClicker and BlogExplosion. And you other people not from either. Did I mention how sexy you look today? You do. That shirt? Hot!

Deja Vu

Another day, another design...

I think I'll stick with this one for a while longer.

Click-Click

My throat is dry. It doesn't matter how much I drink, it's still dry. So dry that there's an audible clicking sound when I swallow. The irony of all this? This didn't start until after we plugged in our vaporizer to counteract the dry winter air.

This leads me to two conclusions: 1. Either my house defies all laws of science, or 2. My allergy medicine is particularly effective today.

Books with pictures?

My cousin came over to pick up some books because my father nagged at him until he caved. Yes, my father is overbearing like that. Most people don't like telling him no, but I have no problems with that anymore. He's the epitome of "give an inch, he'll take a mile".

Anyway, my father left three rather large-ish books for my cousin. My cousin is not a reader. He took one look at the stack and said "Whoa! Uh.. I'm not reading those!" and tentatively took one. He eyed it warily, flipped through it and then said "Does it have pictures? I don't like reading books without pictures."

That'll show 'em!

Mom: So I told the boss that I won't be working anymore overtime!

Me: But...you brought work home with you..

Mom: ....yes.

Me: So you're doing the work, but for free. Did you think this out?

Be still my throbbing head...

The kids were home from school today. They're early risers. I'm not a morning person. They were fighting-- No, they have been fighting since early morning. I love my kids, but I wish they had a mute button.

Tweaked the blog even more. I went through several ideas, and threw most of them away. I'm sorta satisfied with the result. It'll do for now. In the meantime, I need some Valium. Whether it's for me or the kids, I haven't decided yet.

Tweaking

Did a wee bit more tweaking today. Thought I'd throw in some links and such. Amazingly enough, I'm in a good mood. I made an excellent lasagna. That's the main reason behind my good mood.

I did some recipe tweaking, too, today. I took my usual stuffed shells filling and used it for the lasagna. It was bloody fantastic. I stole the stuffed shells recipe from miracle chef Juan-Carlos Cruz, a.k.a. the Calorie Commando. I highly recommend it, as it has become a family favorite. Even people who don't like "healthy" foods will love this. I doubled the filling and it made two very generous layers. I cheated this time and used a jarred sauce (forgive me, oh Calorie Commando). Now, if I could convince my kids to eat it.

The Heartbreak of Heartburn

After spending the day with my dearly beloved family, I now have a headache and heartburn. Well, I got rid of the heartburn. Thank god for Rolaids softchews. They totally rock and don't make me gag or anything. And I know I sound like a commercial, but they're good! Almost like candy.

Speaking of candy, I'm totally loving Hershey's Take 5 bar. What's not to love? It's pretzels, chocolate, caramel, peanuts, and peanut butter. And now I totally sound like a commercial. Maybe I'll get free stuff out of this?

Glasses

Today, I get a call from the kids' school. The boy has broken his glasses and I need to bring him a spare pair. Luckily, we had a pair to spare.

The conversation after school, and on the way to dance class, went something like this:

Me: Ok, (boy), there's something I'm not quite clear on. How exactly did your glasses break?

Boy: They just broke. The lens popped out and then the thingie broke and..it broke.

Me: Glasses just don't break..

Girl: Yeah, glasses just don't break!

Me: (Girl)! Now, (boy), how did it happen? Did you try to force the lens in and the frame snapped or..

Mom: You know, sometimes, after repeated abuse..

Girl: You don't expect us to believe that they just broke, do you?

Me: (Girl)! Not helping! Did you maybe set them down too hard or..

Mom: It might not have been anything you did this time, but..

Girl: The glasses didn't just get up and break themselves, you know..

Me: (Girl)! Please! Just...stop. Ok, ok. Where did you break the glasses?

Boy: (mumblemumble) and they just broke and I went to see (teacher) and then..

Mom: Because you could've weakened the frames another time..

Girl: Oh, you lie!

Me: (Girl)! Let me be the mom, please? Please? Right. Now, (boy), I'm not mad. I just want to know..

Mom: It's been known to happen and..is anyone listening to me?

Me: Yes, mom. Repeated stress weakened the metal of the frames and he didn't have to do anything...

Girl: Oh, he did something..

Mom: (Girl)!

Me: Ok.. Not getting anywhere, people! I'm just saying that you need to be more careful with your glasses..

Girl: And not break them!

Boy: (Girl)! They just broke! I didn't do anything!

Me: That's not important now!

Mom: I keep saying..

Me: I know, mom..

So, according to the boy, glasses tend to spontaneously errupt at the oddest moments. You've been warned.

Mirror Mask

I so want to see Mirror Mask when it comes out. Neil Gaiman, Dave McKean, and The Jim Henson Company are working on this? I'm so excited!

There are some stills over here. Doesn't it look amazing?

Oh. My. God. The trailer. It's settled. I'm in love.

Riding on the Metro

This site has amazing images from Moscow's metro underground. I remember during my trip to Russia, being lucky enough to see some of these first hand. Their subways are unbelievably beautiful. Not a bit of graffiti. Clean and beautiful and not smelly either. It's like another world down there. I felt like Alice falling through the rabbit hole. One day, I will go back.

(link via Metafilter)

Globe of Blogs

I decided to be brave. I just submitted my site to Globe of Blogs. That's why I have the little linky button thing there on the side under "Miscellany". If any of you are from there, try not to rate me too harshly. I don't think my ego could take it. Thanks!

On a roll..

Can't seem to stop drawing now...

I went a wee bit nuts with the shading. (I tend to do that.) And the eyes are a bit wonky. But I'll fix those things. And then, of course, I'll repost. (I tend to do that, too.)

(Edited to add: De-wonkified the eyes and lightened up the shading.)

Fan Art

I did some fanart for my dear friend's webcomic. I promised him I'd do something a while back and never got around to it. (Sorry, Stinky!)

I'm a huge fan of Penny's.

I drew her a smidge too big to include all of her, but I got the most important part, I think.

Wickedly Wonderful

Can I just say how much I love Wickedly Perfect? It's so.....bitchy. I love it. The men? more catty than the women. The women? Pretty darn catty. And there's food! It's almost my version of heaven, right there on tv.

I love Mychael so far. She's competent, confident, laid back and girl can cook! Mitch and Darlene are grating on my nerves. Could they whine just a little bit more? And Mitch? Mychael would so kick your ass if it came down to the two of you. Not that you'll ever last that long. You do nothing but bitch and pose and preen. Darlene? Shut up. Please. Just.. Shut. Up. If I have to hear her whine to the judges about how she's been wronged one more time, I'll douse her with cooking sherry and turn her into a flambe.

I love this show!

Kitty!

This is just too cute!

Just when you thought it was safe to answer the phone...

It was all too much to hope for. I hadn't heard from Aunt Jo in a while. Hmm.. I guess it was sooner than I'd thought, now that I look back. But I hadn't heard from her in weeks. I thought that maybe, somehow, over the holidays perhaps, Sally had told Aunt Jo her real number and that maybe-- oh, please-- she'd stop calling.

But, no. Alas and alack, it was not meant to be. The phone rang, I glanced at the number... It looked familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. I felt that niggle in the back of my brain, but I shoved it all aside. Then there was a voice mail message...

"Sally, it's your Aunt Jo. Will ya bring that, uh, XP cd when you stop by? Ok.."

Dear god, Sally. What do I have to do? You're obviously visiting the woman and fixing her computer, can't you program your bloody number into her phone? I mean, it's not like you even have to answer! I almost never do. And I'm sure she's tiresome-- I've grown to dread her phone calls-- but she's your relative! I have my own pain in the ass relatives to avoid, I don't need yours, too. I even have a very stupid stalker who likes to phone me-- though I've been free of him for about a month now (knock on wood). Throw me a bone, here.

It's not like I can very well change numbers now. I've got this one memorized.

More Useless Information About Me

I got this email from my cousin and thought "Wow! Easy blog entry right there!" I know, I'm a lazy ass. It's one of those things you forward to everyone, but I don't because I don't hate people. Here goes:


Here's what you're supposed to do...and try not to spoil the fun!
Just give in.
Copy (not forward) this entire e-mail and paste it into a new e- mail that
you can send. Change all of the answers so that they apply to you. Then,
send this to a whole bunch of people you know *INCLUDING the person who
sent it to you.

The theory is that you will learn a lot of little-known facts about your
friends. It is fun and easy!!

1. What is your full name: Erratic Prophet.
2. What color pants are you wearing now: charcoal gray sweats.
3. What are you listening to right now: the sweet, sweet sound of silence.
4. What are the last two digits of your phone number: 92 (Is it wrong that I have to say the whole number in my head before I remember?)
5. What was the last thing you ate: apple, peanut butter, granola.
6. If you were a crayon what color would you be: silver
7. How is the weather right now: foggy, wet, but warming up.
8. Last person you talked to on the phone: my mom.
9. The first thing you notice about a guy/girl: their eyes.
10. Do you like the person who sent this to you: sure do!
11. Are you happy today: so far..
12. What is your favorite drink: hot tea.
13. Favorite alcoholic drink: rum and coke.
14. What is your favorite sport: volleyball or soccer.
15.what is your hair color: real: very dark brown, fake: lighter brown with some highlights.
16. Eye color: hazel.
17. Do you wear contacts: yes.
18. Siblings: none.
19. Favorite month: October.
20. Favorite food: Dolmades (stuffed grape leaves).
21. What was the last movie you saw? Super Size Me.
22. Favorite day of the year: Halloween with Thanksgiving at a close second.
23. Are you too shy to ask someone out: no.
24. Summer or Winter: summer.
25. Hugs or Kisses: hugs.
26. Chocolate or Vanilla: chocolate.
27. Do you want your friends to write back: I don't expect that.
28. Who is least likely to respond: everyone?
29. What's under your bed: shoes. many, many shoes.
31. What's on your mouse pad: it's just black with a gel wrist support.
32. What is your favorite board game? Clue!
33. Favorite smells: anything vanilla, honeysuckle,or lilac.
34. Can you touch your nose with your tongue? nope.
35. What inspires you: anything and everything.
36. Do you like your popcorn with salt or plain popcorn? a little salt and a lot of butter.
37. What is your favorite flower: orchids, lillies,tulips and poppies.
38. What is the first thing you think of when you wake up in the morning? I can't think in the morning.

Building Something Out of Nothing

I've decided to try a self-portrait once again. I do this every few years or so just to frustrate myself. This time, I decided to go very slowly, part by part. I, of course, started with-- my obsession-- the eyes.

I'm sure these will eventually get thrown out when I decide that they're all wrong. Or maybe not! Maybe, this time, they will survive. Yeah, and maybe I won't hate this drawing, too. I'm the eternal optimist.

Tick Tock

I don't know why, but I've been slightly obsessive about watches lately. I have a perfectly good watch of my own. I love it and hug it and have named it George, but that hasn't kept my eye from straying. I desperately want and covet Elini's Nazar collection. They're all so cute that I can't decide which I like best and want all of them. Yes, that would mean having 8 watches. I have no problem with that. I also adore Gevril's watches. Particularly their mini collection. I want this one and this one, but they're all cute. We could even go seriously high-end like Cartier or cute and affordable like this. Why couldn't I just be rich?

Thinking...

Is it just me or does it seem like the general public is taking Brad and Jen's split harder than they are?

I really do think I make the best granola in the world. Now how do I keep everyone out of it?

How do I exercise without, well, exercising?

There should be more hours in the day. Then maybe I'd get a whole 8 hours of sleep a night.

A whole lot of soda right before bed? Not a good idea.

So Brad was having phone sex with Angelina, eh? You know, I don't think I could blame the guy..

How did my sweet baby boy turn into this attitude machine? And can I deal with this without killing him?

Two kids = twice the attitude. Someone won't survive their teen years. Who? That's up in the air still.

I should never try to explain a Dead Like Me episode to the uninitiated. Just try explaining why you find it hilarious when Mason smuggles drugs up his bum and the condom breaks and what ensues.. But it is the funniest episode.

I love Mandy Patinkin. I really do.

What the fuck is wrong with my speakers? I've been getting this Morse code-like beeping over them for months now. It's irritating.

I'm so going to bed early tonight. No, really, I am. This time I mean it.

Why is there nothing good on tv?

Dead god, this is the most boring entry ever. Finish it and stick to the stories.

Picture Pages

I decided to try to draw more often. I decide a lot of things when I'm bored. So I drew the girl.

I got bored with the hair and scribbled it in. That's why I cropped it out. I never have enough patience to sit there and draw in hair. I can't spend more than an hour on one drawing and doing hair would take at least an hour. If you don't believe that I'm that psychotically anal, just ask J.

(Edited to add: Those aren't fangs. She's currently growing in her front teeth. Poor thing's been the toothless wonder for a while now.)

Me No Write Good

I have a love/hate relationship with letters. To be completely honest, I have a love/hate relationship with writing in general. I find it hard to say what I want to say. When I speak, I get into it. I'm gesturing, making faces, changing my tone. You get the whole picture, right? Here.. How can I convey what I feel with just words? It falls flat. It feels stilted. It's as painful to read as it is to write.

Sometimes, the words just flow and I'm shocked and pleased by the results. But that's only sometimes. And it's usually the stories I've told time and time again. Yes, I've bored some of you with my stories many times over and I'm sorry. I'm like a kid; if I like a story, I want to hear it over and over. It works the other way, too. I like telling them over and over.

But emails and letters are a different story. Letters aren't as bad as emails. You've got the handwriting, the paper, the ink. It's personalized. You get a feel from these things alone. You can emphasize things and de-emphasize with how you write it. I guess you can in emails, too-- and you get smileys and other emoticons along with italics and bold and underline, but I digress.. Handwritten is just more personal and that helps with the writing, I think.

Not that I write if I can avoid it. I'm so awful about writing people. I'm a bad, bad person. I'm always so sure that I'm boring the hell out of the reader that I put off the writing as long as I can. Often enough, I forget to write altogether. Then I'm the one who gets pissed off because so-and-so hasn't written me and how dare they until I remember it's my fault and write a sheepish letter of apology.

So how is it that I can't write emails, fight against letters, avoid writing in general and yet I'm writing here every day? Because I know very few actually read this. I could write "goo goo ga" over and over and it wouldn't matter. And even fewer actually know who I am. That makes it easier. I'm anonymous. I love the mystery, probably more than anyone else does. So, again, I can write whatever and who's to know? Well, besides a few of you. But I know where you live and can't put the hurt on you if I have to, so be good.

The Fry That Wouldn't Die

I just got finished watching Super Size Me on dvd. I've never been a huge fan of fast food. I prefer home-cooked meals. They just taste better to me. But I do occasionally get fast food. We'll do Burger King every so often. More often, we stop at the pizzaria. I don't worry too much about the pizza because it's a family business and they use real cheese and make their own dough. Even so, we only get it, at most, 2 times a month. I think I'll eat Burger King even less now, though, after seeing this movie-- even though he was eating McDonalds (I'm not arguing semantics, it's all junk)-- I don't think I can eat the fries anymore. The expreriment done with them just grossed me out. Add this to my inability to drink their milkshakes most of the time because of their ingredients list. Anyway, I recommend the movie. It's interesting to watch. And now I want to read Fast Food Nation by Eric Schlosser. It'll probably cure me of any vestigial fast food cravings and that can't be a bad thing.

Reflections, My Grandparents: Part IV

As I said before, you didn't piss off my grandma. Her Look could kill a man at 50 paces. She was scary, in a warm, cuddly, grandma way. One of the things that you could do to irk grandma was, well, to do something stupid. My cousins and I pissed grandma off often enough.

It was rare that my army uncle came up to visit. He and grandpa didn't really get along. But I was always so happy when he did. He was one of my favorite uncles. He was also the uncle who "taught" my mom to ride a bike. He had two kids: T and M (protecting the innocent here). T was the oldest, 2 years older than both M and me. M was only a few months older than I was. You had to pity him, though, because he was tortured by us two girls. I was the youngest, but the bossiest. I'd some how managed to convince M that I was older than him and, therefore, he had to do as I said. (I managed to keep this charade up all of the way up until we were 17. Damn, I'm good.) He didn't always comply, as exhibited in this story.

When they were there, I got to take allergy medicine and play outside. It was fun. I got to play with the cats and dogs and everything. But, being children, we had no attention span and would quickly grow bored. The details are blurry, but that must've been how things happened. Somehow, M got it into his head that we should all shove our heads through the iron railing on the front steps.

Now, I knew that this was a bad idea and managed to get out "I don't think.." before he did it. And got stuck. T took this chance to poke at him a whole lot because he was otherwise occupied and unable to retaliate. He started screaming and that's when grandma came around the side of the house. It was almost like a western high-noon shoot out. Everyone froze, time slowed down. I was terrified. I saw T run for the barn even before I heard grandma's "What are you doing?!" That's when I blurted out "I told him not to! I told him!" before running away around the other side of the house. T and I had a better chance if we separated. I hid near the back porch. I heard lots of screaming, from both M and grandma.

Later, when I saw M, all puffy-faced and red from crying, his head all greased up, I whispered to him "That's why you don't stick your head through the railing." And then ran before he could get me.

Reflections, My Grandparents: Part III

Grandpa's memory wasn't ever very good, even on his best days. Maybe it was all of the kids they had. I don't know. All I knew was this: I've always-- from the day I was born, and probably till the day I die-- hated bananas with a passion. Just one whiff of anything banana scented sends me reeling away, gagging. I hate, hate, hate bananas. And I've always been rather vocal in my dislike.

But grandpa.. Grandpa was sure that I loved bananas. Every time I visited, I dreaded this. It didn't always happen. I think he liked to keep me on my toes. Or maybe grandma distracted him. I can't be sure. But there would come the moment when he'd come up to me, his hand hidden behind his back and would claim he had a surprise for me. The tips of my fingers would go numb, I knew what was coming. I'd close my eyes, hoping this was all a bad dream, if I didn't see it, I wouldn't have to eat it. But, no, I had to open my eyes. "A banana! All for you!" And he'd look so pleased. Each and every time I'd tell him "No, grandpa.. I don't like bananas. Really, I don't!" But he'd just shake his head and wave away my arguments. "You like. You like. Eat." and he'd shove the banana into my hand.

And I'd try. I'd gag, hold my breath, count in my head to distract myself, gag some more, tear up, and do my best to choke down that piece of vile fruit. If my grandmother was around, I could look to her for distraction. Then I'd be able to spit it out, throw it away under some trash, rinse out my mouth and wash my hands. But if she wasn't, oh, if she wasn't.. How I dreaded that! I'd be forced to choke the entire thing down if I couldn't disctract him. Then I'd weakly smile and try to convince him once again that I didn't like bananas, but he'd only nod, pat me on the head and said "Ja, is good. You like."

Reflections, My Grandparents: Part II

My grandma had bad eyes. We all do. It's a family thing. After many years of seeing her lean way back while holding whatever she was reading far out in front of her, I finally asked her "Grandma, why don't you get new reading glasses?" Grandma quickly, in her terse way, told me "I don't need glasses, these are just fine." to which I replied "Then you need to grow longer arms." only to have her give me The Look and remind me that she still had a wooden spoon and she knew how to use it.

I learned something that day. Don't piss off grandma.

Reflections, My Grandparents: Part I

Yes, more on my grandparents. Too many memories. Must write. This one is about my grandpa.

My grandpa was, to put it nicely, a bad, bad driver. He did it all: sped, tailgated, exhibited road rage, I'm not too sure his vision was all too great either. When I look back, I realize that I should've been much more scared than I actually was.

This story isn't about his bad driving, but it does involve a car. When I visited the farm, there wasn't much of anything to do. I was allergic to everything in sight and my face would puff up and I'd start to wheeze if I even so much as thought about going outside. When I did get to go somewhere, it was a big deal. Grandma and grandpa were usually busy with the farm, they didn't have the money or time to take a little girl out. One of my favoritest things ever was to go to the park.

One day, grandpa offered to take me to the park. I was all gung-ho eager about this and ran quickly out to the car. Now, grandpa was old school. He was raised to hold open doors for ladies and then shut them behind them. I hopped into the car. But I didn't hop quick enough-- or he was too quick to shut-- because the next thing I knew I had pain exploding around my ankle. Before I could even breathe, think, scream, it happened again. And again. Finally, I dragged in a ragged breath and shoved against the door, screaming "Grandpa! My ankle! Stop!" I should mention at this point that grandpa tended towards absent-mindedness. He didn't hear and he was determined to get that car door shut.

Finally, after god knows how many slams-- I lost count in my haze of pain and all of the screaming and pushing I did-- I managed to yank my poor leg into the car. I could do nothing but huddle there, whimpering in pain. Grandpa climbed into the driver's side and told me to buckle up. I remember just sitting there, blinking up at him, realizing that he had no clue. I couldn't help it, I burst into tears. He panicked and called for my grandma, thinking I'd gotten sick. I hobbled into the house.

She took one look at me, looked at my grandpa, and asked "What did you do to this child?" I told her of our little misadventure, she sighed and pointed me to a chair while she got an ice pack. That's when my grandpa asked "What? Is she sick? What happened?"

Martha Shmartha

I can't wait to see Wickedly Perfect. It's a new reality show for a bunch of Marth Stewart wannabes. I would so be on that show except I hate cameras. I'd be perfect for it for these reasons:

1. I'm a good cook. Really good.
2. I'm a perfectionist.
3. I thrive on stress.
4. I can shriek like a harpy.
5. I love planting gardens.
6. I wouldn't hesitate to run over neighbors to boost ratings.
7. Did I mention that I can cook?
8. And that I've organized my spices by alphabetical order?
9. I can't sew, but I can crochet!
10. I love handing out handy-dandy tips.
11. I'm a know-it-all.
12. I'm kinda snobby.
13. I can give the show some indie cred.
14. I'm the interior decorator in the family.
15. I'm all over the crafts, too.
16. I could even have a meltdown when my souffle deflates.
17. You know you want to see me throw the hors d'oeuvres at someone.

The only problem is that I'd spend the whole time avoiding the camera. That wouldn't make for good ratings, would it? Or would it?

Ain't It a Shame

Pity my poor neighbors. I've done nothing but sing very loudly, and very off-key, all week. I know I can't sing. I never could sing worth a damn. But that's never stopped me from singing. Or joining chorus in grade school. I can harmonize. I blend well. That's the only time I've ever been complimented-- or not begged to, for the love of all that's holy, stop it already. That's why I never do karaoke solo. My voice, amplified, is constituted as cruel and unusual punishment in most states.

Unfortunately, my daughter inherited my "can't sing, but will do it anyway" gene. When I think about it, not one person in my entire family-- and I am including every relative I know (believe me, that's a lot of people)-- can sing. And most of us are clumsy. But some of us can dance. Something went wrong somewhere.

Resolutions?

I haven't made any New Year's resolutions in a very long time. Mostly because I don't keep them for very long and I hate breaking a promise. I, instead, keep a rather vague list of "things I hope to accomplish-- maybe-- in no specified time period". You may call it wussing out, but I call it practical. I add or take away from it as seen fit. Here's what I have so far:

• Don't attract anymore psychos.
• Really. It's enough already. Stop it with the psychos.
• Take State Board exam.
• Pass (hopefully) State Board exam.
• Maybe you should just avoid people in general. One of them might be a psycho.
• Do not engage current psycho stalkers. Avoid, avoid, avoid.
• Should you wind up dating a man that you later realize is psychotic, avoid any proposals of marriage.
  
• Maybe get in some more exercise or something.
• Try to eat a wee bit healthier. Won't kill you.
• Stalker? Might kill you. Do not answer phone when he calls.
• Try to read some classic literature.
  
• Do not flash book around like an intellectual snob.
• Ok, don't flash book around much. Have some dignity.
• Saving money might be a good idea. Try it.
• Find job minus vicious boss who will shred your self-esteem into bite-size pieces.
• Call/write/email friends more often, you awful, awful person.

Am I missing anything?

Pretty, Pretty

Decided that it was time for a change. New year, new design.

Enjoy!

Family Curse

That is to say, we're cursed with our family. No one gets a say in who they're related to. If you're lucky, you don't entirely hate the relatives. I guess I can consider myself lucky. I actually like my family. Well, most of them.

My mom always asks me how I got to be so twisted and morbid. Why I favor dark humor, biting wit, and satire. I can honestly tell her that it's because of my family. My family isn't nuturing in the "normal" sense of the word. We care a great deal about one another and will do a lot for each other, but we're also all about toughening up the young ones. I was half babied to death, half scared to death.

That's not to say that I resent that. It made me strong and capable. But I see what it did to some of my other relatives and, well, that's not pretty. My family is split into two "sects": the strong and the weak. Whether you're strong or weak is determined early on. We're the ones with the most scars, both metaphorical and physical.

As an example, I'll tell you how my mom learned to ride a bike. Her oldest brother-- she's smack dab in the middle of seven children-- threw her on a bike that lacked working brakes, he then pushed her off down the steepest hill in the area. I've seen this hill and wonder how she came out alive. It's practically vertical, it's so steep, and it's covered in gravel. With my family, it's a matter of sink or swim. She most definitely learned to ride that bike, and quickly.

Speaking of swimming, I was taught how to swim in a similar way. My uncle-- the second youngest of my mother's sibs-- saw me standing near our pool with a floatie ring around my waist. I was waiting for someone to come swim with me because my mom told me to never go into the pool by myself. My uncle grabbed me up and flung me into the deep end. He didn't realize, of course, that I would slip through the hole in the floaty and sink. But I quickly bobbed to the surface and doggie paddled my way to the edge only to see his shocked face. I can still clearly remember his expression. Did I mention that I was three at the time? I practically lived in water after that day. I wasn't afraid because I knew I could swim without a floatie.

Nevertheless, I make sure that none of my uncles go anywhere near my kids. I don't want them "teaching" them something.

The Farm, Revisited

Boy, I was a downer before, wasn't I? To lighten things up, I'll tell a story from my youth. Now as I mentioned before, I was a very good girl and a very trusting girl. If an adult told me something, I believed them. I might have taken things a bit too literally-- so that's where the boy gets it-- and a bit too much to heart.

I'm not quite sure how we ever got on the subject, but I remember talking to my grandma about goats once. She told me that they would eat anything and everything. That, to my overly active child's mind, meant that they particularly loved the taste of child flesh. (See what I mean by literal?) This is what started my fear of goats. The comment grew and morphed and got all twisted in my little mind until they were Satan brought here on earth to punish bad little children by slowly gnawing them to death. (I think I might've read one too many German children's fairy tales as a child and the morbid little books made an impression on my malleable mind.) Even their eyes were evil. They had to be avoided.

One day, my grandma took me to a petting zoo. This was a rare treat because: 1. I was rarely let outdoors and 2. my grandparents didn't have a whole lot of money to spend. Why they thought a petting zoo would appeal to a child that was allergic to everything on god's green earth-- and one who hated getting the least bit dirty-- was beyond me, but I tried my best to appear enthused by the prospect.

The petting zoo was set up rather like a safari ride. They had the topless bus that drove us from pen to pen. I enjoyed looking at the animals, but I had no urge to actually pet one. Eventually, we wound up at the goat pen. There was no way in hell you could get me in there with those flesh-eating demons. I was not that brave. So I was left on the bus while everyone else went in. Even grandma went in, but I wasn't shocked by that since I'd always known she was brave.

Then it happened. Someone forgot to properly shut the gate and one of the goats got out. Where did it go? You got it. Right onto the bus. And there was I, a mere child, trapped with a goat coming down the bus aisle. I screamed for help, but no one could hear me above all the bleating going on and I did the only thing I could thing to do. I jumped over the side of the bus-- something I'd never do normally-- and ran straight into the pen and up to my grandma.

I was in a tizzy, there was a goat on the bus, someone let a goat get on the bus and it tried to eat me and that's when I saw a goat nibbling on the hem of her pants and I let out the mother of all shrieks. That's also when I realized I'd jumped out of the frying pan and into the fucking goat pen.

The rest is a blur. All I know is that I never had to go to a petting zoo ever after that and for that I was grateful.

On the Farm

My mother's parents had a farm up in upstate NY. I always thought it was a nice place to visit, but never could understand why anyone would want to live in the country like that. My mother apparently agreed since she couldn't wait to get away from there. She married as soon as she could and never looked back. Well, except for once or twice a year, for holidays.

I adored my grandparents and loved visiting them. I just didn't get the farm thing. It was so...messy. I was also allergic to everything in sight. My face would blow up after five minutes outside. This terrified my grandparents. They never knew what to make of me. I was the "fragile" one and was to be kept indoors at all cost. I wasn't used as manual labor like my mom, aunts, and uncles. If I was caught outside, I was quickly shooed back indoors. I lived on allergy medicine. Still do, actually.

The farm was a world completely unlike my own. I grew up in the 'burbs, just outside of a rather large city. The neighborhood was getting a bit shoddy, but we all took care of each other. There was a nice cultural mix. Some dutch, some cuban, some italian, and there was us-- the russian/germans. I grew up speaking several languages, most of which I have since forgotten. But up at the farm, there was just land. Corn over there, hay there, the little family garden there, and the animals everywhere. My mom wouldn't let me have a pet. I was allergic to everything and she thought animals were messy. That's partly why I liked the farm. There were dogs, cats, sheep, cows, chickens, a huge bull. It was the anti-neighborhood. The nearest neighbor was a quarter of a mile down the road and they made the best strawberry jam ever. There was no cultural mix. I think there was one colored family in the area. You didn't get to know the other neighbors because they were miles away. There was just the farm and work. Lots of work.

My grandpa was an unusual man. He was of russian stock. Came over from there, via Germany-- where he met my grandma. I never learned much of his, or their, history. Much of it was kept hush hush, for some unknown reason. My questions always went unanswered. I was one of the few rare children who wanted to hear the stories my grandparents had to share. They just weren't sharers. He was a short, stocky man. Very solidly built. A veritable wall of muscle. He had a gentle heart and a wicked sense of humor. I adored him.

My grandma was the stoic german. She was tall, proud and strong-- physically and emotionally. She could set her hair in finger waves with little trouble. She was practical to a fault. She was the anchor, where my grandpa was the dreamer. She was an unbelievable cook. I spent many an hour watching her bake, trying to help when I could. She made sure I stayed inside so I wouldn't get sick. I tried to be a big girl and help cook and clean while she was gone, just to help out and make her proud of me. She loved word searches and was very competitive. I adored her.

My mom would always tell me to not get attached to the animals on the farm. It was ok to love the dogs and cats, but don't start naming the sheep or the cows. They wouldn't be around and she didn't want my heart to get broken. Typical of me to go against this wise bit of advice and start naming the sheep. I only named one or two. I'd tell grandpa not to butcher those, they were my pets. I started running out of names after a while and I stopped playing with them. I wouldn't feed them either. Oh, how I cried as a child when we'd have lamb for dinner. I would try so hard to be a good girl and swallow the veggies past the lump in my throat. I wouldn't eat the lamb.

At the time, I thought it was very cruel of him to kill my pets. But grandpa was practical in his own way. To him, animals were animals. He honestly didn't understand how one would form an attachment to them. To him, they were food, clothing, money. I understood it after a while, but I couldn't look at them the same. It took many years before I developed a deep affection for an animal. There was always that fear that something (or someone) would take them away. I managed to get over that and I developed a bit of insight into why my mom wouldn't allow pets for so long. It wasn't the fur or the mess or the allergies, it was the very same fear I had.

No one can mess you up like family can. Aren't they marvelous?

Waves upon waves..

Isn't it funny how you never really forget something? I've been putting off practicing my finger waves-- no, not the "hello" kind; molding and setting the hair in waves-- for much longer than I should have. All because I was afraid that I couldn't do it. It never was my strong point. I was called the chemical queen. I could do color, perms, hair relaxers, and the like with very little worry. Chemistry never worried me. I love science. I also love art, so that helped with color.

If a teacher couldn't be found, I was the one everyone went to to double check their formulas. I was the one who checked their clients' hair to see if the perm was done, to see if the bleach had lightened the hair enough, to see and fix when things went wrong. That to me is easy. I can memorize charts and diagrams with the greatest of ease. This is why I've always done well enough on tests. I just memorize the hell out of everything. I never worried about tests. Well, not too much.

I always worried about what everyone thought were the "easy" parts. Roller sets, finger waves, pin curls, etc. Manual things. I can control chemicals and make them my bitch, but I can't force my fingers to do what they won't. And for the longest time, I was a complete moron when it came to rolling things. No, not joints, you stoner. I'm talking perm rods and rollers an' shit. I always had the sloppiest sets. It was frustrating beyond belief because I tried so hard. I never had to work at learning. This was work.

I know I always pissed people off because I never really put any serious effort into studying and I always had good grades. Even my teachers kinda made fun of it and took for granted that I'd just know something. It always made me feel exceptionally stupid when I didn't know something because that expectation was always there. It was a lot of pressure. Most of it placed on me by myself.

And that's where the finger waves really come in. It was the hardest thing for me to do. I spent many an hour, frustrated beyond comprehension, a steady stream of curses dribbling from my lips under my breath-- because of the kids, you know; they love to point out when I say bad things. I've even gone so far as to throw my mannequin across the room. I was terrified of my State Board exam. Part of it is practical. I have to show them that I can do a finger wave. I had to practice.

The first time I attempted a finger wave practice session, I was very stupid. You can't put a wave in straight hair. Well, not if the straight hair is on a mannequin. Even on a human head, it would be very difficult. Straight hair doesn't like to bend, the wave will fall out. So what do I do? I attempt a finger wave on a mannequin with straight hair when I have a perfectly good mannequin that has permed hair. Of course, it didn't work. I was angry and scared, sure I was going to fail. Then I realized what I did and felt dumber than dumb.

Today, I finally grit my teeth and got down to it. I grabbed the permed mannequin and sat down. I would get a finger wave today, even if it meant there would be a body count. No one would distract or dissuade me. I got that determined glint in my eye and the house cleared out. My father called my mother to say that I looked particularly evil today and he was taking off for a while-- I guess you can train an old dog to do new tricks. I grabbed my things and....well, I did it. It was so anti-climatic, really. It took me less than fifteen minutes and I did the entire head. Not well, mind you. I wasn't going for well, really. I just wanted to see if I could do it. And I could. Better than I ever could while in school. It was a relief.

I might even try to do it well next time.

Restraint?

I went a bit nuts at amazon recently. I was upset because I couldn't seem to find my Dead Like Me season 1 dvd anywhere except at Sam Goody and it was about $60 there. They had it much cheaper at amazon, so I caved and bought it there. Along with the Nirvana box set, and Rasputina's Transylvanian Regurgitations, and Clue, and Labyrinth. See what I mean? And I could've easily bought more things.

I should've gotten some books.

2005

Let's hope it's better than last year.

Happy New Year!